Page 7 of Amnesia

She came in every day before closing to buy herself a fresh green apple. It was her nightly snack with a cup of hot tea. She refused to buy a sack of apples, instead walking to the store each evening to get just one.

With a curse, I raced back inside, grabbed a small paper sack, plucked a plump, shiny green apple off the top of the pile, and dropped it in the bag. On the way past, I snagged a single white rose out of the case and slid it into the sack, a few leaves and the white petals sticking out of the top.

After I closed and locked the doors, I hung the package on the handle. I didn’t worry the apple wouldn’t still be there when she arrived. I knew it would. That’s the way the town of Lake Lochlain was; everyone knew everyone and no one wanted to get in the way of Ms. Scarlet’s nightly apple.

I hurried down the brick sidewalk, past the shops, potted plants, and freestanding chalkboard signs. I didn’t stop to talk to anyone, but remained focused on getting to the small gravel lot at the end of the block where a lot of us town employees parked for the day.

I had no idea what to expect when I got to the hospital. All I knew was finally she was awake.

Silence.

My mind was filled with the kind I found intensely unnerving. Not the kind of silence from the present, but of the past. Currently, my thoughts churned with questions of course.

Why can’t I remember? Who am I? What happened to me? Where is my family? Did I have a family?

Every waking second I had was consumed with trying to understand how I ended up here—wherever that was.

But that was all. There was absolutely no background music in my head. No memories to fall back on when the answers didn’t come. No general wandering of the mind about my favorite color, what kind of food I craved, or even meanderings about my favorite song or the last movie I saw.

It was sort of like staring at a stark-white wall (which this room had plenty of) and waiting for it to mutter a reply.

There was nothing.

I was frightened, but I didn’t know of what exactly. I supposed it would be everything. If I knew nothing, then didn’t I have to fear everything?

I didn’t even know myself to know how I should act right now. What would my “normal” response be to this kind of situation? Was there one?

I had no idea.

The doctors and nurses said my brain just needed time. Time to heal from the injuries, which I was still unclear on, and then everything would come flooding back.

It had been two days since I woke up and couldn’t tell anyone my name. It might not seem like that long in terms of waiting, but when you’re in the middle of a drought, a flood is your savior.

The longer I waited, the more alert I became, the more anxious I grew.

I wanted answers. From the inside of my head and from those around me. I got the distinct impression I was being handled with care, like a piece of fissured glass showing signs of shattering. I didn’t like that feeling, the first actual tangible sense of truth.

Having the staff tiptoe in and out of my room, the hallways going silent when I was wheeled for testing, and receiving sweet smiles of pity—not my thing.

I embraced those surly feelings. Being grumpy was better than being scared. How was I supposed to ever get better if everyone was acting as if I wouldn’t?

I would.

Something became abundantly clear: I was strong. I was a fighter. I didn’t know the full extent of my condition when I was brought in, but to have been in a comma for almost three months and basically had my mind completely wipedandstill survive? That made me strong.

So although the stillness in my mind as I searched for something, anything at all, about myself was most certainly unnerving—and so was being in the hospital all alone (why was I alone?)—I would figure it out. Somehow.

The door to my room opened, and the doctor walked in wearing his signature white coat over a set of green scrubs. His gray hair was combed back, his stethoscope around his neck, and he carried a clipboard.

I groaned. “Please tell me I don’t have to look at more flashcards.”

He smiled. “Not a fan of the cards?”

“Maybe if I was in kindergarten,” I said grudgingly.

The doctor laughed. “Ah, should we add sense of humor to your list of traits?” he asked as he pulled up a rolling stool near the bed. He was in here so much (along with a slew of other doctors), they actually just kept the stool in the room.

“I think it’s too soon to tell,” I muttered.

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